Southwest Colorado Road Trip
After two months on the road, Kristi and I began a slow, meandering exploration of Southwest Colorado. This little nook of Colorado is a special place, where the land thrusts up directly out of the rusty desert to the south and west. These mountains are the guardians of the Rockies, engulfed in a red sea of dust and canyonlands.
We picked our way slowly along, enjoying the quiet mountains and their big billowy clouds and star-filled nights. A meetup with friends in the Durango area sparked conversations of adventures and we were inspired to get into the backcountry, to leave the van behind for a few days and sling our belongings upon our backs.
Good hiking advice from a friend
My friends are the right people to know when it comes to an encyclopedia of information of the wild and beautiful places. One, a writer / journalist / historian / desert wanderer, has made a living out of long and lonesome adventures that would drive the common outdoor enthusiast mad, or pulverize them into the very sand that fills every nook and cranny of the desert. The other, a river running cave exploring mountain climbing ski crazed mountain dweller with an ever perfect five o’clock shadow and disheveled hair. He is a man of the San Juans. The two of them know more about this desolate corner of the Colorado Plateau than most could ever hope to know.
“Go there”
When they pointed us into the mountains and said, “Go there.” We obeyed without argument. Loaded with supplies, we headed up an ever switchbacking road, beginning under 7,000 feet and ending at over 10,000. The next day, we left behind our beloved van and set out on an infrequently used trail that continued further and higher into the mountains.
Hiking the San Juan Mountains of Colorado
The trail was not spectacular. It wound through the sloping mountains of pine. The mountain trail was certainly nice, but the kind of common beauty that people in Colorado enjoy routinely. The hike so far in the San Juan Mountains didn't thrill the senses like I had expected. We continued up, our trio, our gang, or in Kovu’s mind, our pack.
A good sign from a fellow hiker
As the day wore on, we gained another two thousand feet and were well above the trees. Two women who hiked the other way greeted us. Seeing our packs, they asked, “You staying overnight?”
“Yep.” I responded.
“Ever been here before?” the lady asked as she adjusted her day pack.
“Nope.” I responded shortly, still catching my breath.
“You’re in for a treat!” Her eyes glistened. “I’m jealous!”
Kristi and I looked at each other as our meeting ended.
“I guess that’s a good sign.” Kristi said.
We continued on. The ridge above us now lay a stone’s throw away. We trudged, swallowing breathes at 12,500 feet to try to keep moving. Slowly the ridge came underfoot and the mountainscape beyond revealed itself.
The Colorado view is worth the hike
Like a punch in the stomach, the staggering view left us without breathe. Beyond lay a vast sea of peaks and valleys, alpine lakes and cold flowing creeks. We had ascended a long, slow slope that rose out of the desert itself, until the climax here at the ridge. We were upon the border of the tumultuous inner workings of Colorado, its ancient geology of violence and decay.
Kristi and I climbed higher still, traversing the ridge towards a pinnacle. Just below the summit we found a shoulder where the earth made a small perch at the edge of a cliff. It was just flat enough to make camp. With the mild weather appearing to hold out, we decided we would make our camp at this exposed but truly wild overlook. If the weather turned, it would be a violent, wind torn place to be. But if the weather remained calm, it would provide an incredible place to watch the earth spin.
As the sun dropped, the sea of pink granite peaks illuminated as if from some internal source. The beauty was unparalleled. We drank it in as best we could.
High altitude sleeping
The night was calm but sleepless. The body does not enjoy a gain of nearly six thousand feet of elevation without much warning. The cut in our oxygen rations was rudely received. We tossed and turned through the night, comfortable in our cozy sleeping bags, but sleep refused us. Our alarm went off while only a sliver of light hung on the horizon. We were already awake. We rustled out of our sleeping bags and I put a pot of water on our small stove.
Finding a new camp site
With coffee and tea in hand, we sat on the edge of our perch and watched the sun poke through a window in the clouds. A storm was moving in, veils of rain moving with it. The curtains of rain caught the light, shining near purple in the blue of the morning. We sat there, enamored with the earth and this moment in time.
After breakfast we packed up camp and moved down the mountain. The incoming storm would not treat us well on our precariously perched camp. We retreated back to the ridge, where we resumed the trail and continued down into the basin below. A beautiful lake, shining like a gem, welcomed us into the basin.
Remote backpacking in Southwest Colorado
We were in empty country. The day before we saw only a handful of souls, mostly day hikers. But today, the storm cleared out any competition we may have for good tent sites. We were on our own.
Kristi, Kovu, and I dozed peacefully by the edge of the lake, staring up at the sky as the clouds passed overhead. As the day wore on, we left the grassy shore and hoisted our packs higher up the other side of the mountains. Before long we found another amazing perch to make camp. This one, protected by an enormous bowl of rock, would be much calmer and safer in case of threatening weather.
Weather changes in the Rockies
We were soon thankful for the new location as the afternoon weather shifted. Flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder banged overhead. We had been wandering and nearly ran back to our tent just in the nick of time. A wave of hail pelted the tent as we dashed inside and zipped up the rain fly. Kovu quickly curled up in a pile of sleeping bags and got drowsy despite the torrent of rain and hail that came down upon the tent.
An hour or two later the storm retreated, bringing its thunder to other peaks and ridges further beyond. We stepped outside the tent just as a fading rainbow hung in the air for a few moments before disappearing like an ephemeral stream in the desert.
The three of us made dinner. The air had been chilled by the storm. We sat on some rocks with our jackets zipped up tight as the light once again faded over the mountains. Beautiful clouds rolled by, catching the lingering light. We sat there amazed. This little excursion had not been terribly difficult. We hadn’t needed to slog many painful miles. The reward felt incongruous with the effort, too much beauty and wonder heaped upon us. But we were thankful.
